by Ray Smithies
Following the pouring and customary uniting of crystal glasses, Marsh could see the drink was beginning to settle her nerves. Piochsa looked sensational in a yellow silk blouse that accentuated every curve and contour of her upper figure. Her free-flowing, chalk-coloured cotton skirt had sufficient length to tantalise the imagination. Piochsa was indeed the complete package. Without exception, she always dressed with a feminine flair. She would be a prized catch for some lucky bugger, he thought. Perhaps me, if I play my cards right.
‘A good drop, Piochsa,’ acknowledged Marsh, peering at the label of the 2002 vintage Shiraz.
Piochsa arose from her lounge chair and indicated that dinner was ready. The detective took his seat at the dining table. He had just completed lighting the two candles when a sizeable plate of oysters Kilpatrick was placed before him. Swimming in a high tide of Worcestershire sauce, he raised the side fork and immediately dropped the utensil on the table.
‘Bloody hell, that’s cold!’
Piochsa let out a huge laugh at his unexpected surprise. ‘It’s a family tradition back in Hungary. We always chill our forks.’
After some light humour and the odd embarrassing moment, conversation gathered momentum. Piochsa was finally at ease. It was time to tantalise her guest with the secret main course. She placed a large oval plate on the table. It contained a multitude of ingredients that had Marsh somewhat puzzled. This was not a meal he could quickly identify. Sensing his deliberation, she decided to confess and reveal all.
‘There is probably no dish so readily identifiable with Hungary than goulash. What we have here is a traditional beef goulash recipe.’
‘Wow... it looks sensational and the smell is awesome. What’s in it?’ He inhaled the cooking fumes.
‘Beef sirloin, tomato, green pepper, sweet paprika, onion, poppy seeds and red wine. Oh, and it all sits on a bed of noodles with a drizzle of cream poured over it.’
‘Fantastic,’ responded Marsh as he shoveled down his third mouthful. ‘Time to refill those glasses.’
‘Glad you like it, Paul. When I lived in Budapest this meal was traditionally eaten on Sundays.’
‘Do you miss the homeland?’
‘Oh yes, I have my moments. It’s my parents I miss most. They’re not getting any younger and it’s been two years since my last visit.’
‘What’s stopping you from returning? I mean a two- or three-week holiday would do wonders.’
‘Yes, perhaps, but for the moment I prefer to send money to ease their hardship.’
Marsh felt tempted to pursue the point but stopped short, recalling their earlier conversation regarding unemployment. He decided not to pry, instead preferring to converse on a different subject.
‘You realise I don’t even know your last name. Would it be Piochsa Smith or Piochsa Jones, by any chance?’ he said with a devilish grin.
‘Hardly, being Hungarian. It’s Piochsa Szabo, which is a fairly common surname over there.’
‘And what about your lovelife? Any past romances I should be aware of?’ fished the detective.
‘My, you are the forward one tonight! As a matter of fact I was engaged once. That was back in Budapest when I was in my mid-twenties. My fiancé at the time decided my place was in the home and that I should stop pursuing my tertiary education. I finally wised up to his selfish ways and called the whole thing off. What about you, Paul?’
‘Never engaged, but I’ve had a couple of serious relationships along the way. Back then I was a drifter, not wanting to stay put in one place for too long. I wanted to see the world before some long-term commitment interfered with my plans. In learning how to survive I quickly grew up. My maturity at twenty-one was probably equivalent to a thirty year old’s, but that’s how it was back in those days. Grow up or be left behind. I’ve had my share of casual flings and one-night stands, but that’s all behind me now. I hope that doesn’t sound too ultraconservative. Someone with sincerity and stability is more attractive to me these days. A case of been there, done that as they say.’
‘Nothing wrong in admitting to that. I’d venture to say that most people in their mid-thirties share a similar philosophy. It’s just a matter of finding the right person these days. And it’s not easy. They don’t simply grow on trees.’
For the next hour the conversation centred on the trials and tribulations of today’s society. They agreed that reprisals, retributions, compensation, moral obligations and so on were commonplace in this crazy mixed-up world. What went wrong with these failed relationships? And what were the criteria if one was in search of a suitable partner? There was no right or wrong, no black or white, for each individual looked for a certain attribute or attraction. Physical, intellect, charm, wit, personality, sincerity or a combination mix and match - the list was endless as well as intricate.
Whilst the conversation was a tad deep for Marsh’s liking, it did nonetheless explore the possibilities and give them the opportunity to express their similarities on this complex subject. At least he was grateful there had been no shop talk. It was Piochsa who decided on a lighter topic and directional change.
‘Now that we’ve had our thought-provoking lesson, anyone for cheese and greens?’
‘You betcha! I’ll make the coffees,’ he offered.
Paul’s obsession to lure Piochsa into his arms took an upward turn. While they sat opposite at the dining table, Piochsa had returned from the kitchen with her blouse slightly undone. The top two buttons had been prized open, partially revealing her firm and magnificent breasts. She wore no bra. Her nipples sat proud beneath the silk blouse. Marsh threw his shoes to one side and proceeded to pour two neat Sambucas.
‘Down the hatch,’ he called, emptying the contents in one quick swallow. ‘Another?’
Piochsa watched Marsh as he skulled each consecutive glass. She rolled her tongue across her lips. Her erotic obsession was a match for his. Grabbing his shot glass, her tongue slithered and circumnavigated around its perimeter. The provocative action had fuelled the sexual tension. Fantasy would finally make way for reality.
He quickly moved around the table and grabbed Piochsa in one swift lunge. The passion was intense as he felt her breasts heaving under the silk blouse. The scent of Chanel No 5 lingered on her body as he clasped hold of her strong naked thighs. Clothes were now being discarded at an alarming rate. In the excitement of the moment the tablecloth and its entire setting was dragged to the floor. Amidst broken crockery and water-sodden candles, together with the ruination of a prized flower arrangement, two bodies rolled as one.
Finally she lay completely nude, panting in anticipation of further foreplay. Marsh commenced playing with her vulva and then spread her vagina with his index and middle fingers. Piochsa moaned in a wave of ecstasy as she tossed her long honey-blond hair in repetitive motion. Her ultimate desire was about to be fulfilled.
‘Oh, Paul, I’m so horny. Feel my breasts again, they’re very soft,’ she pleaded while guiding the detective’s erection across her thigh. ‘Just do it. Do it now!’
~ * ~
C
ould I speak to Detective Forbes please?’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Tom Harrison.’
‘One moment please.’
A long delay followed. I wasn’t exactly flavour of the month with the pompous Alan Forbes, thinking perhaps he was deliberately stalling me in his mindless antagonising way. I continued to hold on, thinking the bastard was playing games with me. Idling my time away, I decided to find a word that best described this imbecile. Perhaps nitwit, jerk or moron, but then again, I liked the sound of jackass, nincompoop, schmuck -’
‘Detective Sergeant Forbes speaking.’
Right on cue, that was the word - schmuck. ‘Detective, it’s Tom Harrison speaking. I have some information you should be aware of.’
‘Ah, Mr Harrison, I was wondering when next we would hear from you. Going on vacation or perhaps leaving Pedley for some other reason?’
‘Can we
put our differences aside for a moment?’ I replied. This guy’s satire was a pain in the arse at the best of times.
‘Very well, what is it you need to speak about?’
‘The subterranean passageways beneath Pedley.’
‘But that’s fantasy, Mr Harrison, not fact,’ responded Forbes dryly.
‘If you would just hear me out.’
‘Why should I waste my time listening to some fabled story?’
‘Because what I have to tell you is factual,’ I stated with a dramatic flair to at least get a hearing from the schmuck.
‘By whose account?’
‘A local pensioner called Arthur Simpson.’
‘Never heard of the man,’ he bluntly replied.
‘I only need a moment of your time.’
‘If you’re wasting my time, Mr Harrison, I’ll have your head for this. Understand? Hang on and I’ll fetch some of my men and put you on speakerphone.’
Within a short moment I could hear the movement of chairs and various people accumulating inside the detective’s office.
‘Can you hear me, Mr Harrison?’
‘Yes, loud and clear.’
‘Would you please recommence,’ Forbes said.
‘As I said, the subterranean passages. I’ve been told from a reliable source that over two hundred years ago a series of tunnels and chambers were excavated and built beneath Pedley. This underground network served to house the convicts that were brought to the mainland to relieve the overcrowding of the penal colonies.’
‘And who told you this?’ questioned Doyle.
‘An elderly resident by the name of Arthur Simpson, but in telling you this he wishes to remain anonymous from the prying media.’
‘Arthur is not one to make up a cock-and-bull story. The guy is held in high regard by the locals,’ volunteered Burke.
‘And how does he know all this?’ persisted Forbes.
‘The story has been passed down through five Simpson generations,’ I said, ‘all of whom have lived in the Pedley region for nearly two hundred years. Arthur’s great-grandfather allegedly walked the entire length of one of these main passageways,’ I added with a degree of enthusiasm now that I had the full attention of the constabulary.
‘Continue, Mr Harrison,’ Forbes said.
‘Three buildings were erected aboveground to serve a duel function. These dwellings provided an office and residence for the authorities at the time.’
‘And the other function?’
‘They provided access to the subterranean passages.’
‘So only three entrances ever existed?’
‘Yes, according to Arthur Simpson.’
‘Is there any visual evidence of these buildings still standing today?’
‘No. According to Arthur’s explanation, a major typhoid epidemic broke out some four years or so after the completion of the underground. Hundreds of people died, and as a result the network was turned into a massive subterranean burial ground or cemetery. Both free folk and convicts alike were buried together. In fear the disease would surface and claim more lives, the authorities decided to demolish the three buildings and seal the entrances to leave no trace of their existence. It became taboo for locals to speak of the condemned quarters and so through the centuries it eventually became folklore.’
‘That’s some story,’ Parnell acknowledged.
‘The importance of this discovery needs to be explained further,’ I said. ‘Arthur’s theory is, and I tend to agree with him, that the subterranean passages beneath Pedley serve three purposes.’
‘And they are?’ Forbes asked.
‘The syndicate’s headquarters for their southern operation, their storage facility which has baffled the authorities and public alike for so long, and the place where Brigit O’Neill’s being held captive.’
Silence followed my prognosis. Had my verdict fallen on deaf ears?
‘Hello, anyone there?’ I called out.
‘Yes, Mr Harrison. I believe your final comment has stunned its listeners,’ declared Alan Forbes.
‘Well, I believe it to be at least feasible. I mean, there’s very little else on offer that even comes remotely close to this possibility.’ I wondered what more I could say to convert this group of sceptics.
‘On the contrary, Mr Harrison,’ replied Forbes, ‘I believe it to be quite sound. What gives me hope is the source of the information, given Sergeant Burke has vouched for Arthur Simpson’s character.’
‘Any mention of where these three entrance sites maybe located?’ asked Gallagher.
‘Unfortunately that’s something I cannot help you with.’
Burke was next to react. ‘Assuming Arthur’s story is factual, then this information must be available somewhere. Otherwise how in the hell could the syndicate have gained entry?’
‘I don’t believe the drug organisation would just stumble across something like this,’ stated Doyle.
‘Of course not! I believe the syndicate has done their homework well,’ I claimed.
‘So where would you obtain this information?’ prompted Burke.
I had started a merry-go-round of questions amongst the officers. Their excitement in receiving this information was quite evident from the input I could hear. It was Forbes who provided the answer.
‘My initial enquiries would focus on early newspaper editions or perhaps the Lands Department in the city, whose records go back a considerable length of time.’
‘Makes sense,’ agreed Parnell.
‘Whilst only speculation at this point in time, it is nonetheless a perfectly logical explanation and one that warrants further investigation,’ declared Forbes. ‘Mr Harrison, I thank you for coming forth and not withholding this information. I consider this a high in the context of things. This case is in need of some hope and direction. With further enquiry, who knows where all this may lead?’
‘You’re welcome,’ I said.
~ * ~
Since discretion played a key role, Forbes had arranged for he and Paul Marsh to have a further meeting with Danny Murdock at the local library. With the drug syndicate reputed to have many eyes and ears, this cautious approach was appropriate. While a phone call would probably have been more convenient, the task force felt that a face-to-face rendezvous would extract more information.
Again Marsh observed a similar nervousness in Danny.
‘Good to see you, Danny. Everything all right?’ he questioned, seeing the lad peer over his shoulder on entering.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just makin’ sure I wasn’t followed.’
Forbes commenced his stroll toward a far corner of the library, away from the browsing public. Marsh and young Danny brought up the rear as the three approached an L-shaped chesterfield sofa conveniently located for a private rendezvous.
‘This precaution is solely for your own protection,’ Forbes told Danny. An interview at the station would have meant a very public entrance and not a risk we’re prepared to take. We need to talk further about Broad-bent’s and your knowledge of the drug operation. It’s vital we accumulate as much information as we can prior to the carnival this weekend.’ ‘Very well, where do ya want me to start?’
‘Let’s start with Ferret and what you know about this person.’
‘Ferret still hasn’t arrived at work, which is a worry because the guy generally phones in when he can’t make it.’
‘Yes, we’re aware of this fact. What else can you tell us?’ insisted Forbes.
‘I know he’s been screamin’ for bigger returns. Ferret’s their number one pusher in town. He handles the larger deals in Pitt Street as well as the Regency and O’Rileys, but the syndicate won’t reward him with a bigger slice. Anyway, that’s what he claims, unless he’s boastin’ to make himself look good.’
‘And where does Hassan fit into the scheme of things?’
‘He’s like a backup. They travel in pairs around town and generally command respect from most people. I don’t think too many would
challenge these two in case their supply’s cut off. Demand’s high and Ferret can pick and chose his clients.’
‘Has Ferret ever been threatening when the syndicate refuses to pay a higher return?’ Forbes asked.
‘Not to my knowledge. He doesn’t get physical, just whinges a lot.’
‘Do you think Ferret’s disappearance is linked to the syndicate or to one of his clients?’
‘I doubt his clients since their only concern is to get dope -’
‘But he may have denied someone drugs due to demand and supply and they’ve retaliated in some way,’ Forbes cut in.